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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243538">Dance Beneath the Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aster_moon/pseuds/Aster_moon'>Aster_moon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Detectives, Detention, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Persons, Mystery, Quidditch, Sexual Tension, Students, Werewolf Harry Potter, Wizards</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:40:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aster_moon/pseuds/Aster_moon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock looked over at John, who was staring up at the night sky and fiddling with Sherlocks cloak sleeve. He reached across the gap between them and grasped John's hand, holding it still. John looked at him, and his gaze made Sherlock’s heart jump and stutter and made him want to do all kinds of things.<br/>“John, let’s dance,” he whispered, and the answering smile on John’s face was like the sun breaking through clouds and scaring all the shadows away.<br/>He pulled John up, and they fell into the steady rhythm of an unknown melody that was being played in the distance.<br/>They laughed and danced and twirled for what felt like hours.<br/>And it was perfect, so perfect, and he wanted to keep it close and tucked up where only he could see it and feel it.<br/>So that in his heart, they would always be dancing beneath the stars.</em>
</p><p>-ON HIATUS! I AM STILL WRITING THIS, BUT MIGHT NOT UPDATE FOR A WHILE-</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dance Beneath the Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerade_revelers/gifts">masquerade_revelers</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> When he looked around, he knew where he was.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He remembered the way the cold stone floor had felt and the way that everyone had screamed and laughed and he couldn’t hear the difference. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In his mind he saw the face, the face of the boy who had smiled and not been afraid of the tall freak who had sat alone on the train.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He watched as the boy giggled at something someone said, and looked on as the boy turned back, turned back towards him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Good luck!” The boy had said, and those words had made Sherlocks heart flutter like a small bird. Did he need luck?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He felt as though he were underwater.  </em>
</p><p><em> A tall woman with a tight bun stood before him. </em> An animagus. <em> Teacher of transfiguration, from the look of the small feathers stuck to her</em>. <em> And deputy head too, from the way she was regarded- </em></p><p>
  <em> Suddenly Mycroft was in his mind. He could see him, over at the slytherin table, but in his mind he was closer, in front of him, shaking his head.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Not here, Sherlock,” he said. And then he was gone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The woman peered at her scroll through low spectacles. She said the boy’s name, and it sounded like something new and different. Somehow, he wasn’t afraid of the boy- but that was stupid. He couldn’t trust him. </em>
</p><p>John. </p><p>
  <em> Sherlock looked away. </em>
</p><p><em> The boy walked forward, and sat on the wooden stool. Suddenly it wasn’t John on the stool but Sherlock, who looked up at the large hat on his head and over to where the boy was sitting. </em> Red and gold. Red and gold. <em> John looked up, as if sensing his gaze, and smiled and waved. He didn't hear what the sorting hat was saying. Didn’t need to. He had thought of this moment for months, years; but now the boy sat there and grinned like a spanner in the works of his mind. Shaking his head and ridding himself of his thoughts he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  </em></p><p>
  <em> In his mind, it was quiet and calm. He went through his list, spelling out each thought for the sorting hat to hear. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not Slytherin.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That was Mycroft's house, and Sherlock knew that there he would always be the second Holmes brother. The stupid one. Forgotten.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, not Hufflepuff either; too sentimental.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock couldn’t stand sentiment. But suddenly the boy's face was in his mind and he was taller now, taller and wearing a long red and gold scarf. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Reckless bravery only got people killed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Ravenclaw,” he hissed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And Ravenclaw the sorting hat cried.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He opened his eyes, and saw the boy’s face. Now it was how he remembered: soft and young.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock hardened his gaze and got up from the stool, setting the hat behind him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He wanted to, but he couldn’t allow himself to let down his guard for John. It wouldn’t work.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He didn't have friends.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They just got in the way. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Suddenly there was a song and the sound of waves crashing in his mind. A large red dog sprayed sand as it ran, bounding over the dunes.  </em>
</p><p>Redbeard<em>.  </em></p><p>
  <em> What was this memory? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He blinked, and the coast blurred out of focus. The music stopped.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The stage is set. The curtain rises.  </em>
</p><p>We are ready to begin.</p><p> </p><p>Groaning, Sherlock rubbed his eyes and looked around. Where was he? He glanced at the crumpled parchment beneath his fingers. Above him was a window, and the darkening sky informed a far-off part of his mind that he would be late for dinner if he didn't get a move on. Sherlock collected his books, and tidied them into his large leather satchel. He would continue his essay for History of Magic later, when he wasn’t <em> daydreaming</em>.</p><p>He remembered a… <em> boy </em> in his dream, but their face was out of focus. </p><p>It had probably meant nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock walked through the bookshelves of the library, muttering a low goodbye to the librarian, Mrs Pince. She gave him a fond nod, and turned over the page in her book. <em> Didn’t sleep last night, </em> Sherlock thought. <em> Sawdust- she’s having the building work done. </em> And then, a realisation: <em> Her sister still hasn’t written back</em>. </p><p> </p><p>The hallway was cold and the candles flickered, and Sherlock fastened his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He had just turned the corner when a sharp object banged into his side.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh- sorry!” A voice stuttered. “I didn’t see you there.” </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock looked around, before slowly peering down before him to where a boy in quidditch robes was hastily examining his broom, and when he was sure that it wasn’t damaged, switched it to his other side and looked up. And the ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet. </p><p>“John?” He whispered. </p><p>It couldn’t be. </p><p>But it <em> was </em> - it <em> was </em> him, despite how many times Sherlock had tried to run away at the sight of him, had tried to push him away. Why did Fate keep bringing them back together? </p><p>Sherlock Holmes <em> despised </em>John Watson.</p><p> </p><p>But despite that, he couldn’t help noticing that John had cut his hair, and that he looked stronger from all the quidditch practise that his new position as captain for Gryffindor required, and that his ginger cat had-</p><p> </p><p>“Well, if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes! Haven’t seen you in a while,” John replied with a smile, interrupting Sherlocks thoughts. </p><p>Sherlock smoothed out his robes and straightened his prefect's badge. </p><p>“I’ve been busy,” he retorted, and it came out harsher than he meant it to. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Er, well, congrats- I mean, I knew you’d be a prefect, you’re <em> brilliant </em>, Sherlock- I, I mean- amazing at, y’know… smart. At. S-school?” He paused, but Sherlock remained silent. Avoided eye contact. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, nice seeing you- I’ll… be around, if you need anything!” John stuttered and, giving Sherlock a little wave, stumbled off down the corridor. </p><p>Sherlock blinked. What had just happened? He didn’t understand- why had John not been angry? Sherlock tried to clear his mind. He looked around, making sure that no one else was going to impale him with a broom, and proceeded through the castle. </p><p> </p><p>                                                                                    ***                                                                                                                                                                       </p><p> </p><p>The next time that Sherlock saw John, he was on the pitch. Sherlock hadn’t been meaning to go outside- it had just sort of happened. He had been heading to the owlery to mail his parents, and then he had noticed that Gryffindor was training for an upcoming match- and, well, he had always wanted to see John play.</p><p>He would keep to the back of the stalls, he told himself. </p><p>John would never even know that he had been there. </p><p> </p><p>The changing rooms were empty when he entered, so he continued through them towards the pitch. He was almost at the exit when he heard a familiar voice say his name.</p><p>“Christ Sherlock, what are <em> you </em>doing here?” </p><p>Slowly, Sherlock turned around.</p><p>“Hello, Gerald,” he replied. The Gryffindor quidditch captain sighed and ran a hand through his hair, muttering something like “<em>it’s Greg.” </em>Of course Sherlock knew that, but the way it made Lestrade smile slightly whenever he came up with a new nickname made the teasing worth it. </p><p>It was good knowing one person in his year who didn’t hate him.</p><p>“Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Lestrade persisted. “I don't think I’ve ever seen you here.” </p><p>After the ‘incident’ ten years ago, Sherlock had vowed never to be anywhere near anyone playing quidditch or flying. </p><p>But he wasn’t sticking to that very well. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, just… looking around,” he replied, vaguely gesturing to the benches and kit bags that were dangerously balanced on top of them. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“Please tell me you're not doing one of your ‘safety’ checks again,” he frowned, and crossed his arms. Sherlock pretended to hesitate.</p><p>“Well, just don’t tell McGonagall that the third tap’s broken again.”  He offered a small smile to Sherlock, picked up his broom, and then jogged out of the room, <em>extremely</em> <em>late to practise.</em></p><p> </p><p>When Lestrade was gone, Sherlock slowly made his way to the pitch entrance. He could just about count six fast-moving smudges in the sky, but couldn’t tell which one was John. </p><p>Not that it mattered which one was John.</p><p>It wasn't like he cared if Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff- he should be concerned about his own house winning instead. </p><p>But, he sighed, he didn’t particularly care about that either. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock ducked back into the room as he heard voices approaching, but they walked past the changing rooms. </p><p>“<em>God</em>, Anderson, this is the <em> third </em>time I’m having to take you to the infirmary. Learn how to dodge a bludger, for Christ's sake.” That was Sally Donovan. </p><p>“It’s not my fault Lestrade always aims them at me,” Anderson whined. “He thinks that it’s the only way I’m going to <em> learn</em>.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, and when they had passed, moved closer to the pitch. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t sure why he was surprised that John was playing as a keeper, but felt a sense of satisfaction as he managed to save goal after goal. </p><p>Dammit, John was<em> good </em>at Quidditch. </p><p>And looked good doing it too.</p><p> </p><p>Now that he had learnt all that he had wanted to know, Sherlock told himself that he should get back to his dorm. After all, the sky was beginning to darken and he was smart enough to know that there were worse things out there than strict headmistresses.</p><p>He really should get going. </p><p>But somehow, his feet didn't particularly want to move away from the pitch. </p><p>Instead, he found himself creeping closer to the quidditch stands. He noticed that they hadn’t been fully set up yet for the upcoming match and were therefore an excellent spot for lurking in the shadows and watching John. </p><p>Which, he reminded himself, he was most definitely not doing.</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the practise went by quickly and was largely uneventful, except when Anderson returned from the nurse and proceeded to get hit in the chest by a bludger. </p><p>“We’d better stop there,” Lestrade finally said, and Sherlock could hear the collective sighs of relief from his hiding spot. “I’m sure that you don't need me telling you to get lots of rest, but please also be careful- there have been rumours of a beast being sighted near Hogwarts, and I don't want to be missing a player before our match.” Sherlocks ears pricked up. A beast? Near Hogwarts? His mind ran through multiple possibilities, but none of them seemed plausible.</p><p>He had better make sure that John got to his dorm safely. </p><p>Just in case. </p><p> </p><p>The murmurs of goodbyes hummed in the air as the teammates left the pitch, but there was no sign of John. Why was he taking so long?</p><p>After a while, Lestrade left too, calling something over his shoulder to where John was probably still packing up. </p><p>Suddenly, Sherlock remembered why he’d even come to the pitch in the first place- he had been on his way to the owlery to mail his parents. And now they were probably worrying like they always did, despite the countless times that Sherlock had tried to explain that he shouldn’t need to mail them every Friday because he was really <em> quite all right </em> and <em> not the slightest bit lonely</em>, and, well, now they were probably panicking that he was being beaten up in some long-forgotten classroom. </p><p>If he ran, he could make it to the owlery, send the letter and then return before John was finished.</p><p>He’d just have to be quick.</p><p> </p><p>The sound of his heavy breathing echoed as he entered the dark tower, and the smell of the owls immediately hit him. He was reminded of what Lestrade had said, about some kind of dangerous beast near the castle, and hurried up the stairs to where Hermes was waiting on his perch. Sherlock tied the letter to his foot and gave him a quick stroke of his soft feathers. Hermes wasn’t a particularly affectionate owl, and had a habit of biting people if they gave him any parcels he deemed ‘too heavy’, but he was still the best companion that Sherlock had.</p><p>Which, when he thought about it, sounded rather sad.</p><p>When he was finished, he quickly jogged back to the changing rooms. The lights were still on inside, and the warm glow suddenly felt very comforting compared to the dark path he had run along. </p><p>It was a good night for stars, he realised. He could just about make out Polaris and Ursa Minor, and the moon was nearly full. </p><p>Just then, someone walked out of the changing room.</p><p>Someone who walked right into Sherlock, Sherlock who had been blindly <em> staring at the stars </em> , and happened to be <em> John fucking Watson.  </em></p><p>Just when he thought that the night couldn’t be getting any worse.</p><p>Or better.</p><p>Sherlock wasn't really sure which to apply to colliding with John, because despite his ribs hurting like hell after being hit with a sports bag he did get the benefit of having one of John's strong, muscular arms reach under him and catch him just before he toppled over.</p><p>And suddenly their faces were far too close. </p><p>And then everything in his mind clicked and he found himself grabbing the fabric of John's cloak and using it to press him up against the wall of the changing rooms and he didn’t care who saw as he moved forwards and kissed John.</p><p>He paused when their lips made contact, but then John was there and he intertwined his fingers in Sherlocks curls and pulled him closer, balancing on his tip toes as they both searched for any purchase on the other, any way to get closer and get <em> more</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock felt like he was on fire.</p><p> </p><p>He forgot all about the cold and the dark as John's tongue moved to his neck and the things he did there made Sherlock’s back arch and teased sounds from him that he never thought he’d utter.</p><p>“J-John,” he finally whimpered as John moved away, and when he looked up he took in John’s disheveled hair and bare collarbone and flushed cheeks. </p><p>It was only then that Sherlock noticed that John's hair was slightly damp- he had been having a <em> shower </em>earlier. </p><p>Not that he could concentrate on that right now.</p><p>“Sherlock,” John whispered. </p><p>He felt himself drawn back towards John like a magnet, but he couldn’t shake the thoughts that he shouldn’t be doing this.</p><p>He <em> really </em>shouldn’t be doing this</p><p>He <em> couldn’t </em>be doing this.</p><p>It would just hurt more later, later when it would all fall apart because of a small thing he did or said.</p><p>Later when John saw who he was. </p><p> </p><p>He moved a centimetre forwards, then stopped. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>Then pulled back and re-wound his scarf and patted down his hair. His heart wrenched as he took in John’s confused expression, but he had to make things right before they got any worse.</p><p>He had done enough damage already.</p><p>And to <em> John, </em>too- John who didn’t deserve to see the way he forced his face to harden and the way that he had to turn away and not look back.</p><p>“John, I’m sorry,” He breathed, and hated the tears that threatened to destroy his facade. He had to go.</p><p>“Sherlock, no, wait!” John called as Sherlock strode away. He tried to walk faster.</p><p>He heard John cursing, and turned around. John had forgotten his broom in the changing rooms. </p><p>“Please, wait,” John said as he ran back inside. </p><p>He wanted to wait.</p><p>He did.</p><p>He wanted to stay right there and not move until John returned and then he would smile and take John into his arms and say that he hadn’t meant it and that he would always wait, he would always wait for John.</p><p>But he turned and carried on walking.</p><p> </p><p>When he’d only moved a metre or so, he noticed a tabby cat patiently sitting by a tree but thought nothing of it until he heard the unmistakable voice of Minerva McGonagall. </p><p>From the tree he’d just passed. </p><p>“Sherlock Holmes, what on earth are you doing within the radius of the Forbidden Forest at 10 o’clock? I thought it was clear that this area is off limits at this time unless due to an approved activity.” The voice said.</p><p>Sherlock froze. He hadn’t realised how late it had gotten, or how close he was to the forest. The forest where a dangerous beast was possibly hiding.</p><p>He turned around, and found that his assumptions had been right- the teacher <em> was </em>an Animagus, and now that he saw her again he recognised the glasses-shaped markings on the cat and small silver streaks that had been in her fur and were now reflected in her tight bun.</p><p>“I apologise, Professor. I was…” He searched for an excuse.</p><p>“He was practising quidditch with me,” another voice said. This one belonged to John, who had heard the discussion and left the changing rooms. Stupid, stupid John who always had to <em> protect </em>Sherlock. </p><p>
  <em> He didn't need him.  </em>
</p><p>“I was not aware that you played quidditch, Mr Holmes.” McGonagall said, raising an eyebrow. “Should I be letting Professor Flitwick know that you’ll be trying out this year?”</p><p>“That won't be necessary, Professor. I was simply teaching John some tactics,” he said quickly, and tried not to look at John. “I still have no intention of playing.” </p><p>“A shame,” MacGonagall said. “Filius agrees that you’d make a great seeker.” </p><p>Sherlock remained quiet. </p><p>“Well, I’m afraid that I’ll still have to give you both a week's detention,” She added, and Sherlock shuddered at the thought of having to sit, alone in a classroom, with John. She made to leave, but paused as she passed Sherlock. </p><p>Very quietly, too quiet for John to hear, she whispered: “I admit that I am disappointed in you, Mr Holmes. I hope that I will not regret my decision of choosing you as a prefect.” With that, she left them.</p><p>Sherlock stiffened at her words and suddenly wished that he had never even gone to the pitch in the first place.</p><p>Or that he had seen John. </p><p>Seen him, and- <em> oh god. </em> He had <em> kissed </em>John. Why had he done that? He tried to think, and without looking back at John, he started towards the castle. </p><p>It couldn’t be that he liked John. </p><p>It was true, John was always nice to him and had looked rather good playing quidditch, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock liked him.</p><p>It didn’t. </p><p>Right?</p><p> </p><p>                                                                                    ***</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock arrived at the classroom first. It was empty, and there wasn’t any prepared work or tasks that he could clearly see. Perhaps they’d be going somewhere else for their detention, although he hoped that it wouldn’t be outside, as he hadn’t thought to bring a jumper. Before he could consider running back to his dorm to fetch it, he heard the sound of footsteps outside the classroom. </p><p>He prayed that it wasn't John.</p><p>“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” the voice of Professor McGonagall said, and he sighed with relief. Sherlock watched as she produced a strange watch from her cloak and inspected it, and then peered at the door she had just walked through. “I assume that Mr Watson has not yet graced us with his presence?” She asked. Sherlock felt himself blush slightly at the thought of John, and quickly shook his head. </p><p>Stupid, <em> stupid </em>feelings. </p><p>McGonagall clicked her tongue impatiently and looked like she was about to say something, when John suddenly burst into the room. </p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Training… I had to, I was… sorry, so sorry.” </p><p>Sherlock stared at him. His face betrayed no emotions.</p><p>At least, that’s what he hoped it was doing. </p><p>John's gaze didn’t meet his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>McGonagall sighed and walked to the door.</p><p> “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll explain along the way.”  </p><p> </p><p>“It has come to our attention that a werewolf could be hiding in the forbidden forest,” she explained as they hurried through the corridors. </p><p>Sherlock heard John take a sharp intake of breath beside him, but didn’t turn.</p><p>“Of course, this matter needs to be dealt with with the utmost care and confidentiality, as we suspect that the werewolf could, in fact, be a student. I trust that you will not share this knowledge, gentlemen.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded curtly. </p><p>He didn't need to look to know that John had done the same. </p><p> </p><p>“For your detention, we will be heading to the forest to see if we can find the persons involved, before any harm comes to others here at Hogwarts. I have relied on your assistance before, Mr Holmes, and I hope that you will be able to find out the nature of this situation.”</p><p>“I will do my best, Professor,” Sherlock replied. </p><p>“Then let's see what we can find, shall we?”</p>
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